The Studio

A dome made of simple shapes. The first ones we know of were piles of Mammoth skulls. By the time Eoin and I escaped a Ryanair pod, Mike had rolled his van through a thousand miles over the week past, a few times over the country in the van, brim low like a one man militia. The sticks; thirty five blue and thirty pink, were carted, sailed, lugged and railed. Don’t think he minded at all. The aggressively competent Luke Franklin.

The Normandy Landings happened here, 54 years too late, Tom Hanks storming the crisp clear curve of a Wexford beach. Adam joined, game for it. Five men is a juicy opportunity. Directions? Go over the stream, near the high water mark, between the two posts up there where the pill box stood, one covered and one clear, and dig, dig. Wellies, water seeping into the hole, 60 minutes of dig gets you 3 feet with the wind behind you, hit black sand, with enough piled up beside you there’s talk of the Triceratops shite in Jurassic Park. The sound of waves and curious glances. None of the dog walkers stopped. But a man and his kid gunned over, each on a quad bike, to ask what the story was. Proper hole, we all agreed.

Eoin, all cameras and bananas, ducking and clicking through a strong, simple lattice in a quiet sun. Mostly air but it holds its spine for a tarp, stretched out on a beach like the plastic skein of some future whale. Then dome up. And just sit in the studio for a bit. Get planning. Find the right crew. Design some issues.

Slurped pints and buds of blisters through smoke and Frampton in the ninth. Bets coming off. Then collapsing at your doorstep, Mike and Adam back to their homes and Luke, Eoin and myself split back into the veins of the London transport system, leaving only clean sand but knowing it’s down there.

It’s down there now when I’m writing this and it’s down there now when you’re reading it. This isn’t done. But you’ve to go get it.